


Smiley Face

by unbelievable2



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 13:21:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5541542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unbelievable2/pseuds/unbelievable2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Old Leonardo da Vinci’s got nothing to worry about, that’s for sure. That bears absolutely no resemblance to me, you prat.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smiley Face

**Author's Note:**

> This little ficlet was written for "Discovered in the Holly and the Ivy", this year's lovely Christmas challenge over on LJ. My prompt was "bears."

The house was an easy one to watch; the only one in the whole street that didn’t have a Christmas tree in the window. The street lights were sparse and not that bright, and the Capri was parked a few cars down in relative darkness, quite obscure enough for unobtrusive surveillance.

 

It was a quiet, clear night, with a three-quarters moon and plummeting temperatures. Their breath inside the car was misting the windows badly, and every few minutes one of them had to lean forward and brush a gloved hand across the windscreen to maintain reasonable visibility.

 

Bodie twisted in the driver’s seat and started to trace something on the window next to him; first, a circle then, inside that, an inverted crescent followed by two more crescents, similar but smaller, above it, then a continuous flourish of tight loops over the top. He smiled to himself and turned to Doyle.

 

“That's you, that is.”

 

Doyle looked sideways at him, frowning, and was confronted by Bodie’s smirk and the drawing of a bad-tempered cartoon face on the window. The edges of the drawing were already starting to dribble downwards a little.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“That's you. That what you look like, mate.”

 

Doyle snorted.

 

“Old Leonardo da Vinci’s got nothing to worry about, that’s for sure. That bears absolutely no resemblance to me, you prat.”

 

“Yes, it does,” insisted Bodie, nodding earnestly. “I was reading this thing in the Sunday Mirror, about personalities, the different types and how people fall into groups. They had little drawings to illustrate it, and this one looked like you; your personality, I mean. Except l’ve added the hair. See, _you_ look like _that,_ and _I_...” He twisted again and sketched some more curves on the window, next to the bad-tempered face, “... look like _this._ ”

 

The new face was round, with round surprised eyes and a huge crescent matching the curve of the lower half of the circle.

 

“See, you’re naturally introspective, bad-tempered, surly....”

 

“I bloody well am not!”

 

Bodie grinned hugely.

 

“Ahah, that just makes my point. Whereas me, I’m naturally sunny and positive....”

 

“You?” exploded Doyle, still wearing the frown that matched his little portrait perfectly. “You, sunny? That's a laugh! Try drawing your picture on a wet Tuesday, or when you haven’t had at least six square meals in one day, or when Liverpool’s lost. Again.”

 

“Now, now, Raymond. No need to get nasty. Those are exceptional circumstances. I’m talking about your general disposition. Yeah, I can get into a mood sometimes, I admit it.”

 

“Sometimes!” muttered Doyle, derisively.

 

“But I’m not in it for long, am I? Eh? Whereas you, now, that's your natural state of mind.”

 

“Stop talking bloody rot,” snapped Doyle. “That is _not_ my natural state of mind. But I tell you what _your_ picture is....”

 

He twisted round and started drawing some lines on the window next to him, then sighed in frustration, and swiped his sleeve over the glass, obliterating what he’d drawn. He slumped back into his seat.

 

“I can't draw you. How do I draw a smug, arrogant git?”

 

There was a protracted silence. Bodie leaned forward and wiped his hand across the windscreen, which had fogged up considerably in the last few minutes. Eventually, Doyle cleared his throat.

 

“Am I?”

 

“Eh?” Bodie was now rummaging in the door pocket for something.

 

“Bad-tempered, surly.”

 

“Well, yeah, you are. A bit. I mean...” He pulled up his hand, brandishing half a bag of Cheesy Whotsits. “Look! I knew I had something down there!” 

 

He offered the bag to Doyle, who shook his head.

 

“Wouldn’t want to deprive you. So I am _a bit,_ yeah?”

 

“Well, of course you are. Going off at the mouth and then having a sulk about it is sort of your standard procedure.”

 

Doyle was clearly thinking, staring out through the windscreen at the house they were watching. After a few more moments, he turned back to Bodie.

 

“Does it bother you? Make working together difficult?”

 

Bodie’s grin was his immediate and genuine answer.

 

“It’s you, innit? Wouldn’t be you if you didn't get the ‘ump every five minutes. And me, I lark about a bit too much, play the fool a bit too much sometimes, maybe, but that's me, I think that's why we work together so well.”

 

“Chalk and cheese, like Cowley said,” reflected Doyle

 

“Never really understood that saying,” replied Bodie, his voice muffled rather by Whotsits, “but what's that thing you talk about, Yin and Yang? Like that. No point in having two people exactly the same. No arguments, no debate, no challenges. Boring, that would be.”

 

Doyle gave a slight smile.

 

“But I'm still surly.” It was a statement, a realisation.

 

Bodie, suddenly staring intently through the windscreen, put out a hand and absently ruffled Doyle’s hair.

 

“Yeah, but I love you for it, don't I? Ray, I think there's.....”

 

“…movement,” finished Doyle, his attention fixed now on the house. They slumped down in their seats to avoid being seen. Bodie was craning his neck to see above the edge of the window.

 

“They're carrying something out. Blimey, Ray, I think that’s the equipment. They're moving the counterfeiting stuff tonight, just like Henry told us!”

 

“And you said not to trust him,” returned Doyle, in a tone he suddenly realised was surly; so he added, “Though I don't blame you. You don’t know him as well as I do.”

 

The car outside the stake-out house was revving up, its exhaust billowing upwards. Bodie reached out for the RT.

 

“3-7 to Alpha.”  
.

The RT crackled back after a few seconds, but in the meantime the target car had started to drive away. Bodie tossed the RT to Doyle and twisted the ignition key, but he didn't move off, still waiting for orders.

 

“Alpha One here,” came Cowley’s voice. “Report.”

 

“Sir, it’s Doyle. The targets appear to be moving the counterfeiting equipment. We could hit the house now and sweep up what’s there, or follow them.”

 

“Follow them,” came Cowley's immediate response. “I want to know where the rest of this operation is based. Tail them and run them to ground, Doyle. Apprehend only if you are risk.”

 

The Capri was already moving out into the quiet street, no lights showing.

 

“Understood,” said Doyle. “4-5 out.” He replaced the RT on the dashboard.

 

“Nice and easy,” he said to Bodie.

 

“Yeah,” breathed his partner. “I don't reckon we'll get much risk out of these blokes.....”

* * *

Bodie’s eyelids hurt. Actually everything hurt, but his eyelids were first on the list for movement. He really didn't want to open them, but eventually the natural impulse to wake up couldn’t be resisted further. And the room seemed very bright.

 

“Can't someone shut those bleedin’ curtains?” he ground out, to no-one in particular.

 

“They're blinds, mate,” came the reply, a familiar voice. “Can't move ‘em, sorry. Anyway, it's about time you came back to the land of the living. I can’t wait here forever, you know.”

 

Bodie focused on the room. Ah, hospital; that’s why he hurt. A well-known shape was silhouetted against the bright square of light that was the window.

 

“Ray? That you?”

 

“Yep, last time I looked.”

 

Bodie was frowning.

 

“Did we… I dunno, did we have an accident?”

 

Doyle snorted.

 

“You could say that. But I think I’m supposed to let you remember this yourself.”

 

Bodie rubbed his forehead.

 

“Oh yeah, the counterfeiting job. Christ, it’s all coming back.”

 

“Black ice,” said Doyle, sombrely.

 

“Yeah. God, yeah, now I remember. They hit it first. I couldn’t stop, though.” He looked apologetically at Doyle. “Sorry, sunshine.”

 

“No-one could have, mate. Nasty corner, nasty conditions. The targets went straight into a tree. At least we got their equipment, even if they won’t be able to help us with our enquiries anymore. We just went over the edge into a ditch; got off lightly.”

 

“And the car....?”

 

“A right-off, sorry.”

 

Bodie groaned.

 

“Bugger! I liked that one!””

 

“That’s why you're here,” continued Doyle. “The car landed on the off-side and you took a nasty knock to you head. Just as well your skull’s so thick, hey? But they say you'll be fine. X-rays were okay, just concussion. You've got to grin and bear it here for a day or so, while the lovely nurses give you bed-baths.” He grinned wickedly.

 

“Anyway, I’ve got to go.” Doyle pushed himself off the window-sill where he’d been leaning, and picked up a brown paper bag that had been lying next to him, tossing it onto the bed. “I've brought you grapes. Don't eat ‘em all at once, now.”

 

“Oi, you just going to piss off?” demanded Bodie, offended, as Doyle sauntered past. “And me on my sickbed?”

 

“Duty calls, sunshine. And bear up, eh? Work’s too busy for you to be cadging sick-days.”

 

With that, Doyle tweaked the bare toe that was sticking out of the bedcovers and slipped out of the door. Bodie could hear him reporting the patient’s condition to a nurse in the corridor. 

 

_Nice, that is,_ thought Bodie with a frown. _Not even a ‘glad you're all right, Bodie, get well soon, Bodie’. Miserable sod; surly, bad-tempered, miserable. And bloody grapes....!_

 

He pushed the paper bag off his legs, and then frowned again in puzzlement as the bag rolled over to display angular protrusions under the brown paper; not grape-like at all. He thrust his hand to the bottom of the bag and brought out a handful of Quality Street.

 

He stared at the sweets for a moment, and then his face lit up with a quite involuntary smile. 

 

“Oi! Doyle!”

 

But his partner was gone. A quiet female voice in the corridor replied for him.

 

“Your friend said he’d be back at six, Mr Bodie. Now you just rest.” There was a squeak of rubber soles and a rattle as she pushed her trolley away. Shaking his head at the unpredictability of Ray Doyle, Bodie glanced over to the window to judge how far off in the dreary winter day six o'clock might be.

 

With the cold weather outside and the overheated environment within, the big window was, not surprisingly, hazed with condensation. And there in the panel of mist, just behind where Doyle had been standing, someone had drawn a face; a big round face, with a continuous curly loop of hair on top, two wide eyes and a grin that would have gone from ear to ear, had the artist bothered to draw any.

 

Bodie sank contentedly back into the pillows, and peeled himself a chocolate caramel.

 

_fin_


End file.
